shared space and light

A letter from former Artistic Director, Dominic Dromgoole

A letter to the next Artistic Director.

Dear Fearless, and Fortunate soul,

Twenty years ago, Mark Rylance and Lennie James led a company in a modern dress production of Two Gentlemen of Verona, the first production in the new Globe.  Much scholarship went into the show, and twice as much free-wheeling invention. Happily, exhilaratingly, no-one knew entirely what they were doing, and they and the audience joined to discover a new language for making theatre. An adventure was launched, which led to twenty continuous years of chance-taking, boldness and surprise. Six people in pyjamas doing Cymbeline; scrupulous Original Practice work; throwing a roof on the building for Titus Andronicus; building rose gardens in the yard for Merry Wives; and yes, phantasmagorias of light and sound for last year’s Dream; and brute urbanising for Imogen. Shakespeare done with freedom and a curiosity to match the audience’s. 

That is the Globe tradition. It was new, and it is still new. A newness that begins again every afternoon and every evening when the audience come in and draw their breath at the sun, the wood, the colour, the swirl of it all, and each other. Newness is not easy for everyone. The bile towards the Globe was there at the beginning, was felt keenly by Mark, was ever-present in my time, and spilled out last autumn hideously from those both pro- and anti-Emma Rice. It goes with the territory. The Globe is forever breaking moulds, that inspires fear, and fear can lead to loathing. The rush of energy that accompanies the new, and the roar of approval from those happy to climb on board is more than ample compensation. Dear Fearless and Fortunate Soul, above all else keep the Globe new.

From the very start, the Globe pushed the boundaries on BAME casting, an action which we continued in my time with the natural joy of walking into a brighter room. Emma has carried that torch. Globe gender-bending began with Shakespeare, and Mark extended it with Vanessa Redgrave as Prospero, and with three all-female companies, including Phyllida Lloyd’s first Shakespeare with a female company, a seedling which grew into a spectacular tree. We carried this on, and were proud to transfer two successful plays by women writers to the West End in my last year. Emma extended this experiment much further, and she was right to. Carry on pushing these envelopes.

Mark experimented with new plays, a risk that grew fast as we presented countless big new public works. New writing beside a Shakespeare is a constant reminder that Shakespeare himself was once new, and the energy of the former electrifies the latter. Emma has carried that on, and, for me, it should remain at the heart of the Globe.

The Globe’s youth creates endless opportunities. It fits no particular mould – neither subsidised nor truly commercial – so is still free to invent itself. Over the last twenty years, it has freestyled different ways of playing Shakespeare; created a small-scale touring network, both national and international; built a new theatre, the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse; held a huge International Festival, and created a filming programme and a VOD platform. Contrary to some bizarre lies which have been circulating, all done within its unsubsidised means. Emma came in with a host of new directions, of new ways to facilitate artists, and with a large-scale intervention into how shows are staged.

The fact that Emma has been stopped in fulfilling her ambitions is heart-breaking. It is also wrong. The spirit of a theatre is that it should follow the lead of its artistic director. And an artistic director cannot usefully be anyone but themselves. The fact of your contract is also that, unless otherwise specified, you are free to invent as you wish. The only people who have the moral strength to get rid of you are the audience. No-one else, not the board, not your supposed colleagues, not the vulture punditry, just the audience. Emma had lost a little of the Globe audience, but all the evidence is that she had gained some as well. Please remember, F, and F Soul, that your first responsibility is to yourself, and to them.

At the heart of the Globe are, for me, two things. First the £5 ticket for the yard. Over the last twenty years that single fact has given over five million people an extraordinary experience for less than a sandwich costs. They have seen Mark in his pomp, Gemma Arterton’s Rosaline, Gugu Mbatha Raw’s Nell Gwynn, Roger Allam’s Falstaff, Eve Best’s Beatrice and Cleopatra, and countless others for only £5. It is a miracle. For all the talk of accessibility elsewhere, there is nothing equivalent to touch it. It makes many uneasy, many who espouse accessibility write with a shameful snobbery about tourists and students as if they were a sub-human species. There was also a steady pressure internally to raise that price, a pressure which Mark and I and Emma resisted. The £5 ticket is at the heart of the Globe’s success, you must fight for its survival.

The second thing at the heart of the Globe, for me, is playing in a shared light. A democratic space where a story unfolds as an imaginative agreement between text, actors and audience. It is this that Emma experimented to change, and which is at the heart of her disagreements with colleagues and the board. For me, shared light was the unique Globe tool, which subverted the orthodoxies of director’s and critic’s theatre, and which handed back to the actors and the audiences the capacity to collaborate together freely on making an imaginative experience occur. Taking away that uniqueness doesn’t strike me as radical, it strikes me as conformist. Every theatre has light and sound, the Globe didn’t. This uniqueness matters to me, and for me, F and F Soul, it is important to preserve.

However Emma didn’t come in to emulate myself, or Mark, she came in to be herself, and so she triumphantly was. As an Artistic Director myself, I respect Emma’s choice in doing so, and I cannot respect the blocking of her choice. No-one, not committees, not cabals, not connivers, no-one can set this policy but the AD. They have to make these choices with passion and conviction for the whole of the rest of a theatre to make sense.  Early on in your time, you will find it invaluable to listen to the many experienced voices around you, and also invaluable to be exceptionally wary of those who do not want to advise but who want to influence. Everybody wants to be Artistic Director. They can’t all be. Only you can. It is vital, Dear F and F S, that you ring-fence with iron and steel your own freedom and ability to make choices. This must be put down in black and white, and made public, and it must be adhered to. With an ear to what the audience wants, and with an eye for where to take them, no-one should set artistic policy but the Artistic Director.

Now that Emma has carried out her experiments with light and sound, it is pointless to pretend she hasn’t. What has happened, can’t unhappen. Many felt alienated by it, many loved it. To write it out of the Globe story and say it can’t happen ever again is fundamentalist, and as daft as any form of fundamentalism. Emma’s experiment should be folded into the Globe’s story as gleefully as all the other experiments have been; new work, internationalism, modernising, design interventions. For me, the majority of the work should be in a shared light, and with natural sound, but to make it that and that only, just doesn’t add up. Dear F and F Soul, fight to keep room for manoeuvre.

You will notice, Dear F and F Soul, that some of my comments have alluded to negative energy. It would be foolish to pretend it isn’t there. The Globe has its enemies without - many don’t like the freedom of the place, its open-ness and its warmth. Some simply can’t cope with its happiness. Our culture and its commentators often prefer the shrivelled sausage to the plump one, and the Globe is fat and juicy. The degree of bile can be disabling. I have just had my own and my family’s Easter wrecked by some pathological viciousness, and I’ve been gone a year. Emma has had to put up with much worse.

Sadly the negativity doesn’t only come from without, there is also a fair sum within. There are structural problems, there are personality problems, there is too much fighting for territory, and there are too many who feel free to comment on work without ever taking the risk of making it. It is absurd that out of the mess of last year, the only person to be suffering the consequences is Emma. However the Globe is taking steps to address the problems, you have an excellent CEO in Neil Constable, who has copped too much of the blame for last year’s imbroglio while doing all he could to avoid it, and you have the best theatre department in the country. The fact that the Globe has gone on making excellent work through summer and winter, with so much distraction, is testament to their excellence. Dear F and F Soul, you will have to be prepared for tough decisions, you will have to be strong and independent, but you will have some of the best around you.

Above and beyond all else, Dear F and F Soul, if you inhabit the same office which Mark, I and Emma were blessed to sit in, every day through the long summer, you will hear at 1 o’clock, and at 6.30, a bubbling hubbub of excited chatter, and standing to look out you will see a snaking queue of four or five hundred people, eager to charge through the doors, and jostle their way to the best positions in the yard. The quality of their excitement and anticipation, of their sheer appetite for a great afternoon or evening, of their big human hope - there is no price that can be put on that. It is one of the biggest privileges in the world of theatre to be able to join with it.

Relish, enjoy, make their hopes and yours real.

All the best,
Dominic Dromgoole

Casual headcanon that Bodhi has trouble falling asleep. It’s been this way since as long as he could remember and his time with the Empire didn’t help (nor did his time with the rebellion tbh). When he was younger, and unable to sleep, his uncle used to sit him down and point out all of the constellations. His voice a soft rumble and his eyes lighting up as he shared his passion for space with a young Bodhi.

What little rest he’s able to attain is plagued with nightmares. Thoughts of fire and brimstone, of chilling silence and assisted breathing, of slimy tentacles and hysterical sobs reach his dreams and he finds himself unable to stay asleep for long. Sometimes he avoids sleep altogether, hides out in the hangar and stares up at the sky.

It’s on nights like those, where the voices in his head are too loud, where he can feel whispers of tentacles and the sonic boom of an explosion ripping his world apart that Bodhi stares up at the sky. He sits in front of his ship, looking up at an unfamiliar array of stares and planets, thinking of family’s lost and gained. He’d be by himself some nights, looking up with nothing to keep him company but the stars and the silent bite of wind. Other nights the others would be there. A quiet Baze, sitting beside him with nothing more than a warm blanket and the soft timber of his voice as he asks Bodhi to name the stars above the two of them. A smiling Chirrut who’d regale him with tales of his and Baze’s adventures. A contemplative Jyn who’d hesitantly, almost shyly, speak up about her own experiences, an olive branch extended to him and only him. A talkative Cassian, who comes with a cup of warm milk in his hand, and a story on his lips, quiet chuckles exchanged in an otherwise silent night. Over time the visits from the others frequent until Bodhi’s no longer alone on these nights. He wakes up from another nightmare, hands shaking and memories shattered beneath warm tentacles and “so you were telling the truth.” He makes his way to his ship, hands still trembling breathing uneven and he stops at what he sees. Chirrut’s the one who notices him, and Bodhi swears the grin on the other man’s face could be a star all on it’s own.

“Took you long enough.” He says and Bodhi half sobs and half laughs as he takes the cup of warm milk from Cassian and accepts the blanket offered to him by Baze. Jyn punches his arm and all of them settle down in front of the ship.

Later, when Bodhi wakes up to find himself in the middle of Jyn and Cassian’s slumbering forms he can’t help the small grin that spreads across his face.

Bodhi Rook has trouble sleeping, some nights he can’t sleep at all, haunted by the screams of his family and the quiet whisper of “Bor gullet.” But on those nights, where he can’t make heads or tales of where and who he is, his family is there to help him, coax him out of the pit of despair and rageragerage until he can breathe again. And when Cassian wakes up with a silent cry and shuddered breathing, or when Jyn folds in on herself, fearful and angry all at once. Or when Chirrut can’t keep up the smiling facade any longer, his hands trembling and his breathing too harsh to be normal. Or when Baze shuts down, sucks in his emotions until nothing is there but an empty husk. Bodhi is there, sometimes a quiet reassuring presence, other times loud and boisterous if only to drown out the voices they no doubt hear. They help each other, a tightly bound disjointed family and Bodhi thanks the Force for every minute of it.


Request: “Can you do a Alex summers (xmen) imagine for me pleaseeee. Where they like eachother but they don’t want to admit it and so the team helps them which a rigged game of 7 minutes in heaven?”

Notes: I am absolutely so sorry that I cannot write Alex to save my life. I tried but it just seems…off? Idk I honestly apologize for this but…hope some part of you still enjoys it anyway…? Yikes…

Before you know it, Raven and Armando are pushing both you and Alex into a closet during a drunken party shared between all of you. They shut the door, flashes of satisfied grins being the last thing you see before there’s total darkness and the audible click of a lock.

“Guys, come on! This is so…awkward…” you pleaded as you smacked at the door with a flat palm. You hear an annoyed huff from behind you before a resounding click turns the light on in the small space you shared with Alex.

Closing your eyes for a moment, you take in a deep breath and slowly let it out before turning around. “Can you even believe them?” you asked, shaking your head incredulously as you gesture behind yourself. “It’s like we’re fourteen years old all over again.” A nervous chuckle escapes past your lips in a hot puff of air, Alex not even able to look you in the eyes. “Do you want me to, uh…melt us out of here…?”

Six minutes!

Alex seemed unsure for a few moments as you stood there, trying to read his facial expressions from what little he emoted. “M-maybe not…?”

Your eyes widen at the blond’s words, mouth parting slightly from how surprised you were by his comment. “Maybe…maybe not…? What, uh…what does that mean, ex-exactly…?”

The other simply stood there, clearly battling with himself on what to say next. Or what to do, as this particularly case may be, since the next thing that happened was Alex gingerly pressing a tender kiss to your lips, almost afraid to see what would happen.

He pulled back a few moments in, your face still visibly taken aback by what just happened. “I’m sorry, that was–”

“No! No…” you exclaimed quickly, wanting to assure Alex that whatever just happened, it definitely wasn’t anything that you didn’t enjoy on some level. “It was, uh…it was something…” you nodded briefly, clearing your throat as the other brought his hand up to awkwardly scratch at the back of his head from how uncomfortable the air in the room now felt.


“It was good. Nice.” you clarified, knowing you sounded like you were going to let him down easily despite the fact that you absolutely wanted to continue kissing him.

“Right…” Alex seemed to look dejected in response to your words, looking down at the carpeted floor and letting out a soft sigh that you’re positive you were only able to hear since it was just the two of you in such a small and quiet space.

Unable to figure out the right words, you manage to say ’screw it’ and lean in to capture his lips once again.

This time, it’s Alex that seems surprised. But only momentarily before his fingers trail up your arm and find themselves tangled in your hair as he hesitantly deepens the kiss. You let him, your own hands running up the man’s clothed chest before your arms drape over his broad shoulders.

It wasn’t long before things heated up slightly, neither of you seeming to want to push things further with a possible audience only a few feet away. Suddenly, the double doors to the closet open and you pull apart from one another. Hesitantly, you look back at the group of gawking faces, Raven’s own grin the widest of them all, softening only when she finally made a comment.

“Gotta love Seven Minutes in Heaven…”


Now you might say to me, “Megan! Why do you keep making overly fancy white costumes?” And to that I would say “I have no freaking clue, kind stranger, but please save me from myself!”

In what, love, does fidelity consist?
I will be true to you, of course.
My body’s needs I can resist,
Come back to you without remorse;

And you, behind the footlight’s lure,
Kissing an actress on the stage,
Will leave her presence there, I’m sure,
As I my people on the page.

And yet – I love you, darling, yet
I sat with someone at a table
And gloried in our minds that met
As sometimes strangers’ minds are able

To leap the bounds of time and spaces
And find, in sharing wine and bread
And light in one another’s faces
And in the words that each has said

An intercourse so intimate
It shook me deeply, to the core.
I said good-night, for it was late;
We parted at my hotel door

And I went in, turned down the bed
And took my bath and thought of you
Leaving the theatre with light tread
And going off, as you should do,

To rest, relax, and eat and talk –
And I lie there and wonder who
Will wander with you as you walk
And what you both will say and do….

We may not love in emptiness;
We married in a people place;
The vows we made enrich and bless
The smile on every stranger’s face,

And all the years that we have spent
Give me the joy that makes me able
To love and laugh with sacrament
Across a strange and distant table.

No matter where I am, you are,
We two are one and bread is broken
And laughter shared both near and far
Deepens the promises once spoken

And strengthens our fidelity
Although I cannot tell you how,
But I rejoice in mystery
And rest upon our marriage vow.

—  Lover’s Apart, Madeleine L'Engle
In His Dreams

A.N.: The last Drabble Games request on the list! This is for @wesawbears, who requested FeyRhys from ACOMAF and 20: Cuddling during a storm. It’s sort of set post-ACOMAF, with the fluff and angst flavors as requested :) I’ve never written for this fandom before, and I’m not really sure what this particular fic is, so please be nice to me. I hope you enjoy it, though!

Summary: Rhysand is having a hard time dealing with Feyre’s absence, so she comforts him with a dream.

Word Count: 1,153

Warnings: Some canon-dubious magic use, rainstorm, angst, and cuddling

Rhys landed on the roof, rain sluicing down his wings and crawling down his spine beneath his fighting leathers. The patrol flight he’d just completed was unnecessary and he knew it, but he found himself restless in the late hours of the night since he had returned to Velaris. Hybern’s recent attack on the city he had given so much to protect shook him to his core—even more so because he knew that it was his own Cauldron-cursed hopes that paved the way for the mad king’s attack—and though the protection spells were back up and reinforced thanks to Amren and Mor, he had to see to its protection itself. Such instincts were so deeply a part of him that they were hard to resist, even when he wanted to.

Reflexively, he brushed a mental hand across the mating bond, just to check that it was still there. It was always there, but that did not lessen his relief to feel it still whole, with Feyre’s warmth on the other side.

Keep reading

when your scary but stupidly attractive boss’s less scary but also attractive partner starts to work with them ;) @feynites

anonymous asked:

Could I please get Shimada bros, McCree and Lucio taking their s/o through a haunted house and Te s/o being genuinely scared. Thank you! Love your stuff btw ^^

got it!

Genji: Covers their ears with his hands, because he heard that the scary sounds are worse than the sights, and leads them through the haunted house as they cover their eyes. He gets scared once and almost moves his hand to grab his sword, but once they’re out his s/o clings to him and he takes them home.

Hanzo: Stands with his arm around them the entire time they go through the haunted house, if something comes close to them to scare them he moves in front of them. Once they’re out and home he makes them tea and calms them down. They’re not doing that again.

Lúcio: Puts headphones over his s/o’s head with their favorite music so they don’t have to hear the scary sounds and walks them through, holds their hand really tight so they know he’s still with them. He asks them how it was once they’re out, and if they don’t want to do it again they never will, he’s not the biggest fan of them anyway.

McCree: He’s terrified. He’s trying to be strong for his s/o but he’s scared shitless. At one point he even ducks behind his s/o. They end up laughing about it several days later but when they go home that night they sleep with several lights on in their shared living space.

Look, I don’t even know, okay. It kinda started with this ask. But then it spiraled with @armsbendback ‘s suggestion. And now it’s strangely part fluffy, part grumpy, part doggy-style, and part birthday. 


I think it could be funny if he was trying to do nice things for his SO all day, like buying what he thinks are her favorite flowers but he gets it wrong, attempting to bake a cake and ruining it and finally conceding that the one think he can do is fuck her right and he still messes up? Maybe it’s her birthday idk. This is probably way too cutesy for Nevada but I think he does have that side.

You were utterly exhausted, barely able to drag your feet home from the subway. Having to work a twelve hour shift on your birthday was bad enough, but it seemed as if all of your patients had conspired today to be as awful as possible. Your scrubs were covered in spit, and blood, and various other bodily fluids that you would rather not think about at the moment. And all you wanted was a shower; a nice, hot, scalding shower to wash the stench of sick humans off you.

Keep reading

The Pajama Fic: Part 1

Despite having been here for several days now, the jet lag left over from your trip from London to LA was still getting to you. Everyone else seemed to be getting used to the time difference but you still stayed awake the longest and slept in the latest. You were delighted to be in LA though; Sony had invited you and a bunch of other successful youtubers to film at a professional studio in the area. You had two weeks to creates projects together with their newest cameras and 3 days in you were already having the time of your life! The place you were staying was amazing too. Sony had put you up on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, sparing no expense at all. Everyone had a bedroom and small area of the house but in the centre was a shared patio area where you all spent most of your free time. There was a small pool and a small fire pit that you all sat round at night.

It was the morning of the fourth day and you were still laid asleep in your room that was attached to the shared space by enormous french windows, across which you had drawn the light, gauzy white curtains. The bed was luxuriously comfy, and ridiculously big, which did not help your sleeping-late dilemma. But there you were curled around the fluffiest of duvets, one arm stretched over the pillow to your right on the empty side of the bed as if it was someone you were incredibly fond of. A warm breeze hit your face making you stir slightly but not actually managing to wake you. At the far side of the room the french windows had been pushed slightly open, causing the light curtains to drift in the breeze. Tentatively Dan Howell stepped slightly through the door to see if you were still asleep. Dan was one of the youtubers that had also been invited by Sony on the trip. Although he had more followers than you, you had collabed once or twice and found that you got on incredibly well, along with Phil. Since then you had hung out often since you both lived in London and didn’t mind just sitting watching stuff at each others houses without really needing to make an effort to entertain each other. It was a strong friendship that you were glad you had formed because it suited both of you and made this trip even more fun.

However if you had seen how Dan looked now, your feelings for him would have doubled. He stood at the doorway, leaning inadvertently on the doorframe into the room. His hair was unkempt and slightly curly, suggesting he to had just woken up and not taken time to straighten it. His eyes were slightly dewy from disturbed sleep and he was rubbing the back of his neck, showing how he felt a little awkward coming to wake you. He wore loose pajama bottoms and an old, baggy t-shirt that showed off a bit too much collarbone for people to handle normally. In short he looked cute and hot and kind and dreamy and normal all at the same time. Unfortunately you didn’t see any of the this because you were still asleep and had snuggled your face into the billowy covers.

Dan smiled a dimpled, shy smile at seeing you excessively enveloped in your bed still and decided that he better wake you up as it was already afternoon. He took a few more steps into the room, approaching the empty side of the bed where your arm lay outstretched, reaching around the pillow as if searching for comfort. Still smiling he sat lightly on the side of the bed, noticing how you didn’t even stir because you were so fast asleep. He gingerly reached an arm out to shake you on the shoulder but hesitated mid air, not really wanting to wake you. Instead his hand dropped to the duvet, next to where yours lay outstretched, fingers gently curled around the soft white material. Moving incredibly slowly, as if terrified of his own actions, Dan slightly traced the shape of one of your fingers as if admiring the mere existence of your hand. The touch was delicate, but incredibly intimate and would have made you shudder - if you had been awake. Dan’s smile had turned into something far more serious and intense and he took a deep, steadying breath to steel himself. This time he not only traced the finger with his fingertips but the entire hand, admiring each knuckle and tendon and the softness of your skin. Ever so slowly he begins to lace his fingers between yours, appreciating how easily they fit together. The smile had begun to return to his face, his sleep filled eyes lighting up slightly as he held your hand. Singularly delighted at his progress he lifted his eyes to your sleeping face and cherished the way you slept so peacefully. His smile grew and his breath because more shallow as he looked back down to your intertwined hands. You see, although you never considered it a possibility, Dan had slowly but steadily developed feelings for you as your friendship grew. Right now his heart was pounding and he couldn’t ignore the ache in his chest that suggested this is exactly where he wanted to be. He really didn’t want to wake you. To be honest he didn’t want to be awake himself as he was still suffering from the jet lag as he naturally stayed up to unreasonable hours as well. But everyone else had gone into town to buy groceries for that evening and he wanted make sure that you were ready when the came back to avoid their banter more than anything. But he couldn’t help himself when he saw you lying there. He wanted so desperately to be with you, but couldn’t fathom a way to express it. However he realised now that this was a bit creepy and maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Making the decision to leave and pretend nothing happened he looked back up to your face, instead he saw your eyes flicker open and groggily take in the scene around you. Although his touch was incredibly tender and loving it had woken you and now you focused down at your hand and made the connection with the touch and Dan’s presence. Dan’s stomach dropped and he quickly let go, turning from you and standing up, the blood rising furiously in his cheeks. The sudden movement wake you completely and your eyes widen and you begin to sit up.

“Dan.” You say in a confused and slightly startled tone. Did that really just happen?

“..I’m so sorry.” He stutters out, refusing to make eye contact with you and getting closer and closer to the door. “I didn’t mean…I just…oh my god I’m really….”

“Dan” you say again, a little softer this time, registering the panic and embarrassment that was overcoming him. “Dan it’s okay…”. But he continued to stutter his apologies and ruffle his hair in embarrassment. You decide to swing your legs out of bed and sit on the side, looking up at him backing away. He glances at you and his blush intensifies as you both realise you’re only wearing small pajama shorts and a small white tank top as it is hot at night. Dan can’t help but think that you look incredibly beautiful with slightly messy hair falling on your pretty neck and chest and his heart rate increases again.

“I think I should go, it was wrong of me to come in here when you were asleep I was actually coming to wake you up but then…” his fast speech trailed off, and he took another awkward shuffle toward the door. You stood up and quickly closed the space between the both of you and grabbed his hand before he could completely walk out. It stopped him in his tracks and he turned back round to you, a mixture of shame and embarrassment still in his eyes. You only stood there for a moment but it was long enough for you to form your thoughts. Dan Howell was holding my hand. Dan Howell is stood in my room blushing. Dan Howell is comfortable around me with hobbit hair and pajamas. Dan Howell likes me more than a friend.

“Dan it’s okay.” you say sincerely. And you mean it. It is okay, because now that you look at him that way there is no one you would like to be closer to than Dan. Because the idea that Dan wants to hold your hand is making your heart pound in your chest. Because you’re now finding feelings for Dan that you didn’t realise were there, or maybe you knew all along, you’re not sure any more. But you are sure of one thing; you don’t want him to leave.

NaPoWriMo Day 7: My heart no longer works right but at least I can still dance

In the midst
of rearranging
my nightmare
of a closet,
it falls to
the floor—
cream dress
with black felt
flowers, petals
billowing their raucous
unfurl over the pleated
skirt and classic

When someone else
broke my heart, you
taught me to dance
in this dress—a kind
of healing that only
comes from the sharing
of palms and
light toe touches
and close, close
space. Swung me
around every room
and hallway, every
sprawling field
and tight-knit
dining room floor.
You gave me room
to remember the beauty
of an orbit, the relentless
joy of gravity swinging
out and out, before
the tender reeling
back in.

When we left
each others’ hearts—
not forever, but just
in this way—I hung
the dress in the back
of my closet, promised
myself I would only
wear it again
when my body was ready
to love and heal
and swing again.

How foolish of me—
I could not unlearn
that intergalactic
dance, not even
if I

Casting a Circle (complex)


· Chord/sand/salt/chalk/tape

· Sheet (if using sand/salt)

· Besom (ritual broom)

· Incense/Smudging

· Holy water/salt

· Athame/wand

· Lighter

· 4 candles


· Physically clean up your space by vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, whatever you have to do to make it physically clean.

· Lightly sweep your besom to remove bad energies from your sacred space, and feel the positive energy flow down from your hands and body into the besom, having the energy strike the floor through the straw like igniting a match, cleansing all negative energy from the space (optional step).

· Make sure you have everything for your future ritual inside your circle space. Go outside of your circle space and make a physical representation of the circle with a chord/sand/salt/chalk/tape. Make sure this is over a sheet or outside if you are using sand/salt. DO NOT MAKE A FULL CIRCLE UNTIL YOU ARE INSIDE!

· Close the physical circle.

· Call the guardians of the watchtowers:

“Guardians of the watchtowers, spirits of the North, South, East, and West, hear me now and lend me your power to guard this holy circle from all things dark, negative, or evil. Come into my temple and be at one with me; so that the Gods and Goddesses can come here in peace to share my sacred space.

(Light South candle)Guardian of the South, Lend me your love/compassion/sexuality*,

(Light North candle) Guardian of the North, lend me your spirituality/scholarship/health*,

(Light West candle) Guardian of the West, lend me your judgement/grounding/balance*,

(Light East candle) And Guardian of the East, lend me your divination/communication/wisdom*.

So mote it be”

(*whichever applies to your following spell)

· Burn Incense and Chant:

“Bless, cleanse, consecrate, and purify this temple in the name of the almighty deities; that nothing dark, negative, or evil shall be made a part of it. Let nothing of this nature trespass within these temple walls. I caste it out, for it is not needed here. In the name of the almighty deities, so be it.”

· Sprinkle holy water/salt mix (Clockwise) and chant:

“Bless, cleanse, consecrate, and purify this temple; that it be made pure and holy for the Gods and Goddesses themselves. And nothing dark, negative, or evil shall be a part of it. In the name of the almighty deities, so be it.”

· Point wand/athame to the sky and imagine pure white light from all other realms, coming into the athame/wand and into the body, until it has engulfed the body and the whole circle in a white globe.

· Call to your deities:

“Lords and Ladies, (insert your respective gods and goddesses), I praise your holy name. My temple now has been made ready, holy and pure, that nothing dark, negative, or evil shall trespass herein. This is only a temple for you – for me to visit you and be at one with you. Please lend me your audience and bless me with your presence. Blessed be.”

· Begin your ritual, do not step outside until it is complete. Perform a ‘cutting’ if necessary. To ‘cut’ point your wand/athame making a small ‘cut’ line to make a door out of the circle, left to right. Do it the same way when coming back in, right to left on the same line.

Guided by Lady Leeanna with prior knowledge mixed in. Enjoy!

Destiny - Lita_Snow - Kingdom Hearts [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Namine/Roxas, Kairi/Sora, implied Roxas/Xion, desired Namine/Axel | Lea
Characters: Roxas (Kingdom Hearts), Namine, Sora (Kingdom Hearts), Kairi (Kingdom Hearts)
Additional Tags: Introspection, questioning fate, Light Romance, conversations in shared heart spaces, KHII, Post-Kingdom Hearts II, Post-Kingdom Hearts Dream Drop Distance, Roxas and Namine are definitely separate personas even when part of their Somebodies, primarily Namine’s POV, originally written July 2014, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net

Sora and Kairi are together once again. They’re destined to be together. So that means Roxas and Namine are too…right? They’re not so sure. Watching the world go by through their Somebodies’ eyes, they wonder whether they are meant to be together just because of Sora and Kairi, or if they might be free to choose their own destinies.

Yay, finally got off my butt and cross-posted a fic to AO3! Been meaning to do this forever and only just got around to it.

The End

The sky is a plum and silver canvas stretching overhead by the time Dean guides the Impala off the dirt road and into the field, light popping noises echoing under Sam’s feet from the rocks kicked up by the pull of the tires. Silence has settled into their skin over the last few hours of their drive, the unspoken words between them dissipating like the smoke after hastily lit fireworks.

There’s been so much tension, so many problems and resolutions and lies and confessions that have transgressed between Sam and his brother that it’s nice to just sit. Sit and breathe. Feel the leather under his fingertips as Sam finds the small tear by his right thigh, feel the stuffing underneath, coarse yet soft against his skin, a mark made when he was sixteen and Dean was unattainable and Dad was asleep in the backseat, a mark of stifled rebellion against this turmoil of emotion hot in his chest of want and need and can’t have. So many small reminders of him in this car, him and Dean, the legos rattling with the heat because it is cool for an August night, the burn mark from the one time Dad caught Dean smoking and he dropped the cigarette in surprise and created an ashy reminder in the carpet of the driver’s footwell.

Countless lives they have saved over the decades, hundreds, millions, the entire goddamn planet. And none of them would know their name. But they have this. They have their car, Dean’s grip on the vinyl wheel, Sam’s shoulder tucked against the door. And on nights like this, Sam knows it’s enough.

Sam barely notices when the car pulls to a stop, Dean easing on the brakes so softly that the Impala practically glides into the center of field before he puts her in park. The ticking of the engine is like a lullaby, smoothing down the hairs on Sam’s neck, small knocks against his heart when he sees his brother turn to look at him from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to be the first to breathe.

“I’ll get the beers,” Dean says, rough and low and scattering goosebumps up Sam’s arms. All he can do is nod back and wait for Dean to step out and creak the door shut again before closing his eyes. He follows moments later, always follows his big brother, and they meet at the front of the car.

Dean’s head is tilted back, his lips parted ever so slightly in awe at the stretch of the Milky Way across the blue-black sky that lies above, and it takes a few seconds for Sam to tear his eyes away from the look of complete abandon that is scribing itself into his brother’s features to look up himself. 

It sweeps the air out of his lungs, folds them in on themselves and crushes his ribs with the immensity of it all until he’s reaching back to steady himself on the hood of the car. Stars shining, unhindered by city lights or smog, reaching towards them with white and pale blue and dusty red fingers, constellations shimmering with faintly drawn lines between them, a spider’s web of beauty arching across their vision. 

Sam’s moving without really thinking, the warmth of the metal beneath him warming his thighs as he lets himself slide down against the windshield. Dean is just there, steady and reliable and constant, heating Sam’s entire left side, handing him an opened beer, a cold press of sweating glass on the inside curve of his palm. They’re breathing in time and the long grass rustles around them with the music of the night.

It’s like there is eternity hanging between them and infinity spreading above them. It’s suffocating, lighting Sam’s nerves on fire while dousing him in chills, an enormous pressure like an invisible hand pushing down on his chest to flatten him to his car, try to mold his very muscles along the sleek black frame below. Then Dean speaks and Sam can suck in air, oxygen seeping into him once more at the rumble of his brother’s voice.

“Never thought it’d end like this.”

Sam has to lift his bottle and take a swig before allowing his words to climb out of his throat.

“How’d you think it’d end?”

It’s quiet again, for a long time. Sam doesn’t mind. He knows Dean, thinks that he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. This side of his brother, the side that only Sam has ever seen, it doesn’t come out often. It’s rare, just like these starry nights in the middle of nowhere with nothing but their car beneath them. So Sam breathes and Dean breathes and Sam has his peace.

“Bloody. Definitely not this. Never thought we’d have any semblance of -” Dean cuts himself off and Sam turns his head to watch Dean clench and unclench his jaw a few times, biting on the words he’s barely forcing out. The moonlight brushes the strong line of his profile, straight nose and full lips in a tight purse, the wrinkle between drawn eyebrows.

“Yeah. Me neither,” Sam says back, because he gets it. He does. And Dean seems grateful for that, his shoulders untensing as he sinks a little further into Sam’s side, the scent of his aftershave tickling Sam’s nose.

The blanket of stars soars above them and Sam feels small in the dark spaces between the twinkling lights. They don’t share any more words, just nudges and lifted arms to trace the arc of satellites or a hand gripping the other’s wrist when a shooting star flares bright and finite, its tail searing a line into their eyes that doesn’t fade for minutes at a time. Sam knows that the seconds are whispering by, can feel it in the ache of his bones and the grey hairs starting to appear on the scruff on his jaw, and he just finds it in himself to be thankful. That through it all, he’s had his own constant, his own star to follow, and it’s pressed against his shoulder on the hood of their car.

“What do you think is up there? For… for us?” Sam asks finally, his throat catching and rasping from the hours of not talking. He watches Dean tilt his head a little to the side, contemplating with a curious, small smile at the edge of his lips. When he meets Sam’s stare, he grins, all white teeth and crinkling skin at the corners of his eyes. It’s like a flower of heat blooming in Sam’s stomach, spreading out like flames to every fiber of his being.

“We’ll figure it out, Sammy. Just like we always do.”

In Norway, koselig—pronounced kush-lee—is more than a concept. It is part of the culture. Local bars often supply wool blankets and sheepskin or reindeer pelts that you can pull over your lap while you sip a pint or share a bottle of wine. Interior spaces are designed to radiate light, and many bathrooms have heated floors to warm slush-chilled feet. At one dinner party, I even noticed a big basket of hand-knitted Norwegian wool socks that guests could borrow to curl up on the couch, and soon got my own personal pair, which had been made by a grandmother. That only intensified the koselig factor, because you could sense the care and love that went into them. Dinner itself was koselig, largely because it was held at a friend’s home among a small group of close-knit friends who prepared their meal together, refreshed one another’s wine glasses, and brewed countless pots of thick, rich coffee. An evening such as that, I was told, is considered more koselig than simply meeting at a restaurant because of the privacy generating a kind of openness, playfulness, and honesty that would be harder to achieve in a noisy public place.

Initially, I thought of koselig as a kind of coping mechanism, a way of finding comforts during the dark, cold months of winter, when much of the city burrows deep until spring. But for Norwegians, winter is not something to be endured; it is something to be enjoyed, with small pleasures taken liberally and often, as part of their way of life
—  What We Can Learn from Norwegians About Surviving Winter - Jenna Wortham 

You should be mine…
let me explore the darkest parts of you that forced that beautiful light in you
Immerse me in the special place in your heart you reserve for no one, just yet

My love is to heal, not damage
You’re beautiful and my soul knows it
that’s why she dances and twirls at the sound of your name

It would be foolish of me to not explore your love
I just want to share your light
…and kiss your scars
Be in your space
…and build something to call ours.

—  Be mine (afreedomtoexpress)